


speak easy (got a lot on your mind)

by misdemeanour



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, chloe really shoulda went to a doc but she stumbles to her friends instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misdemeanour/pseuds/misdemeanour
Summary: “Look, do you wanna hang?” Because that’s a completely normal and rational thing to ask of your friend, who has school in approximately four hours. Six? Fuck if she knows. Chloe’s been expelled for close to a year, and her friendship with Rachel is about the only good thing left in her life.Rachel sucks in a breath, lets it out. “At four in the morning?”“Yeah.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are huge similarities between this, and "blood & bruises". Wanted to share it despite that because Max and Rachel would handle a similar situation very differently and this is my attempt at that.

With trembling hands, Chloe retrieves the phone from under the seat of her truck; it had slid off the dashboard when she took a corner took fast. Blood stains her fingers, even smears on the screen as she sifts through the contacts. Muscle memory is her only saving grace in this moment as her thumb mashes Rachel's number, ringtone echoing in the cab. She looks down at herself, at the dark stains marring what was once a white t-shirt. One of her favourites; now it was just a bitter reminder of the shit she found herself in on a weekly basis.

She swallows, stares out at the dark Blackwell parking lot. Her truck hums, the sound close to thunderous in the night's stillness. Sinister shadows stretch their inky fingers towards her. Rachel doesn't answer until she calls a second time.

“Jesus, do you know what fucking time it is?” Anger cuts through whatever grogginess Rachel has, but her voice is still a balm to the hurt she feels.

“Really fucking late,” Chloe supplies. At least her nose has stopped bleeding, but god if it doesn’t hurt. Touching it is enough to make her eyes water. She taps it, blinks against the moisture in her eyes.

“I just—” What? Need an emotional crutch–again–because she’s too poor and too stubborn for an actual therapist? Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose. There’s something about pain that quiets the racing thoughts and her mind won't shut the fuck up.

“Look, do you wanna hang?” Because that’s a completely normal and rational thing to ask of your friend, who has school in approximately four hours. Six? Fuck if she knows. Chloe’s been expelled for close to a year, and her friendship with Rachel is about the only good thing left in her life.

Rachel sucks in a breath, lets it out. “At four in the morning?”

“Yeah.”

From the other end, Chloe can hear her mumbling, the shifting of sheets as she leaves the bed. “You in the parking lot? Somewhere close?” Her voice loses it edge, grows softer, kinder as she relents to Chloe's request.

“Parking lot.”

Rachel hangs up. Chloe turns off her truck and hates the silence that follows. It makes her feel small, makes her head scream with every bad thought and feeling she's been doing her best to drown in shitty beer and pain.

Three minutes later and Rachel's crossing the sidewalk, swallowed up by a denim jacket that's disturbingly familiar. The sight stirs something ugly and spiteful in her chest.

Chloe jumps out of the truck, half-excitement, all nervous energy, and meets her by the passenger's side. The street lamps paint the parking lot, and Rachel, in a yellow glow. Her hair is the colour of mustard in the light. 

“What’s this about?” Voice quiet, on the edge of demanding. Her features are soft with concern, or that could be the poor lighting. She doesn’t mention the busted nose, or the blood. Not yet, anyway.

“Maybe I just wanted to see your face.” The comment has Rachel’s mouth quirking up at the corner, though–a minor victory in her books.

“Well, what happened to yours? Get in another fight?” Rachel shrugs, fabric shifting with the movement. Even half-asleep and annoyed she is pretty. She hurts to look at.

“Moonlighting as Batman for extra cash.” Getting into fights just to feel something probably isn’t the smartest thing she’s done, but this way she can blame someone else for the damage. Doesn’t need to admit to herself that she’s the dictator of her own undoing. So, she doesn't. 

With a chuckle, Rachel leans against the side of the truck. “Right. You look like shit, by the way.”

“Only the best for my babe.” Chloe attempts to smile, but it comes out a grimace. Smiling, or trying to do so, has stars exploding in her vision. (Chloe swears she must harbour a galaxy in her eyes.)

“All right, Casanova,” Rachel shivers, and Chloe notices then that she’s wearing only the jacket and a tee. “Since you’re obviously not going to a doctor anytime soon, why don’t we head inside and clean you up?”

Chloe abides.

Chloe abides because it’s Rachel, because the way she holds her hand on the way to her dorm is the best thing to happen to her that night. It’s real, solid. Warm. Right now, getting decked in the face doesn’t seem half so bad if it lead to this.

There’s a comfort to be gained from the ordered chaos of Rachel’s room. The small dorm feels more like home than her own house ever could. Chloe comes to this conclusion sitting on the edge of Rachel’s bed and watching her dig through drawers, talking to herself, or maybe to the items in those drawers, her golden hair spilling over her shoulder and arm. Incense wicks up towards the ceiling, the bitter smell of musk nipping at Chloe's nose (breathing through it is a constant mistake she makes, ever the masochist). She used to hate the smell but now it reminds her of Rachel.

Visiting Rachel after every fuck-up is bordering on routine. And she makes it so easy, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t bother her for answers she doesn’t care to give. Gratitude can’t begin to cover what she feels for Rachel. Chloe’s worse with words than she is self-control, and neither are particular strong suits.

Silently, Rachel takes a seat beside Chloe, water bottle in one hand, and (hopefully) old shirt in the other. Something close to worry flashes in her eyes, but its gone as quickly as it came.

“Rachel,” Chloe shivers though she's not even cold, focuses on Rachel's long and slender fingers and how they keep themselves busy. There's a mole just above her third knuckle.

Rachel makes a noise of acknowledgement, wetting the heathered grey fabric. The water sloshes, and some of it seeps between her fingers, falling to the bed like tear drops.

Words die on Chloe's lips, murdered by a lame and lonely, “Thanks.”

She stops what she’s doing to look at Chloe, a wry expression on her face, like she’s trying not to laugh and wants her to know it. Worry flashes lighting quick in her eyes again.

“You say that to all the girls you wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, don’t you?”

“Just you.” Only ever her.

Rachel's laughter is the best thing Chloe's ever heard.


End file.
